


Over The Rainbow

by RileyC



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Dreams, M/M, Post-Bordeaux, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another post-Bordeaux exploration of how Duncan and Methos find their way back to each other. Well, except for the part where, back in the Bronze Age, Methos meets Duncan in the wilderness and brings him to the Horsemen's camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over The Rainbow

As he switched off the lights and windshield wipers and got out of the Citroen, pulling the collar of his coat up against the cold rain, Duncan MacLeod approached the barge, his step slowing as he sensed the presence of another Immortal. _Great, just what he needed_. It had been a long couple of days, off at that estate auction in Brittany to act as a proxy bidder for an old client; he did not need a run-in with another Immortal to cap it all off. As he drew near, however, he couldn't help marking that this particular buzz seemed to be running a little weak at the moment, and that it had a familiar resonance to it. "Methos?" He went on up the ramp, looking around the rain-slicked deck, and then almost fell over the other man where he lay in an untidy heap. A quick examination disclosed no injury, aside from a small, sticky lump on his head, leaving Duncan to conclude Methos had slipped and clonked himself a good one.

With a sigh, Duncan got the door open, then lifted Methos' not-so-inconsiderable dead weight, and carried him inside, depositing him on the sofa. Getting the lights on, he took a closer look at the injury before going for a damp cloth to wipe away the blood. The wound was already healed, but the lump looked tender, and Duncan knew from experience that head injuries always had a longer recovery time, so he didn't expect Methos to be up and about for awhile yet. He got Methos' coat and shoes off, settled a comforter over him, and with his good deed for the day accomplished -- a wry smile graced his features at that thought -- Duncan hung up his own coat and went over to the sideboard to fetch a bottle of Scotch, wondering what had brought Methos here today.

It had been awhile (too long, a voice whispered) since Methos had just dropped by to cadge his beer and tweak his sensibilities. Not since back in Seacouver, just before -- he sighed, and poured himself an extra finger of Scotch -- just before Kronos had come out of the past to turn everything inside out. For a little while there, during the business with Steven Keane, things had almost felt like they were getting back to normal, but when the moment had come, when Methos had been ready to open the way -- _"We all have mistakes to forgive."_ \-- Duncan hadn't been able to cross that bridge. He wanted to, he dearly wanted things to be as they had been, but he knew that just was not possible, and he hadn't yet found a way to move on to some new level with Methos.

If only it could be that easy, to just forget Kronos ever happened. To blot out what he now knew of Methos' past. He sighed again, taking slow swallows of the whiskey. Maybe it couldn't be that easy -- you had to deal with reality straight on, no matter how much you hated it. Had he known that before Methos? he wondered, and couldn't be sure. But when Methos came around, maybe they could begin working it through. To let this impasse continue, to let Kronos' ghost drive them apart, was to let that bastard win in the end, and Duncan wasn't prepared to grant him any kind of victory.

Methos stirred slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, at least to Mac's ear. Still no sign of returning consciousness, though, and the Highlander sank back in his chair, thoughtful gaze resting on the other man's features. Even out cold, Methos look tired, drawn, as if his five thousand years suddenly weighed too heavily.

Maybe they did. After Duncan's initial anger and sense of betrayal had faded to something harder to define -- equal parts hurt, disappointment, and an empathy from which he had first shied away -- Duncan had wondered just who Methos had most meant to deceive with his lies of omission. Himself, as much as anyone? Pretend the Horsemen never happened, and hope to God it never came back to haunt him? It didn't sound like Methos, the consummate pragmatist, the realist -- but then when had Duncan ever really bought those claims of cool detachment anyway? Certainly not since Methos had turned up on his doorstep to warn him Kristen was in town.

"Come on, Old Man," he said softly. "Wake up. We have a lot to talk about."

There was no response, of course. Methos only burrowed deeper into the cushions, lost in his dreams. Duncan hoped they were pleasant ones.  


~*~

_Somewhere in Mesopotamia -- The Bronze Age_

 

He had hovered on the edge of consciousness for a long time: aware of the relentless sun beating down on him as he lay there, tumbled in the hot sand, the pain in his back burning intensely every time he moved. Try as he might, and his muscles ached from the strain, he could not reach the arrow to withdraw it. He couldn't heal, and the sense of frustration and helplessness that engendered was almost worse than the pain. Kronos or Silas should have come looking for him by now -- if they had gotten safely away. He didn't even know that.

Blood flowed freely from the newly reopened wound, and Methos collapsed back onto the sand, his sense of angry desperation ebbing at last as he felt the approach of another Immortal. "Kronos!" He raised his head, trying to locate his brother. "Kronos -- I'm here!"

"Aye, I can see that -- but 'tis not Kronos," answered a completely unfamiliar voice, and Methos' sense of urgency returned and intensified as he scrabbled for some purchase in the loose sand and tried to get to his feet, to his sword. The pain tore through him, though, and he crumpled back, as furious as he was scared, to be caught this way when he couldn't even defend himself.

Instead of the blade of a sword, however, Methos felt a strong hand come to rest on his shoulder, that strangely-accented voice telling him to, "Hold still a bit," followed by a blinding burst of pain as the arrow was finally wrenched from his flesh.

In a few moments even that pain had passed, and he quickly rolled away, springing to his feet, his sword in his hand and he regarded the other Immortal. The other man was about the same height as himself, although with a more solid, substantial look to him; his hair fell almost to his waist in dark, curling waves; he was mostly covered in a curious patterned garment of blues and greens, and other colors, and the skin that was left bare was kissed with gold and bronze hues. He was the most beautiful thing Methos had ever seen -- the thought came irrelevantly, and he immediately pushed it away. "Who are you?"

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and I dinna want your head."

Quite inexplicably, Methos found he believed him, and after another few moments sheathed his sword -- belatedly noting the other man had never drawn his at all. "I am Methos," he said, then added in wry tones, "of the Horsemen."

"I am pleased to meet you, Methos. Have you been here long?"

"Long enough," Methos said with feeling, and then heard himself adding, "Thank you for your help, Duncan MacLeod." When was the last time he had thanked anyone, for anything? When was the last time there had been cause to?

"Where are your people?" Duncan MacLeod asked, those rich dark eyes sweeping over him with a look of concern.

Somehow Methos couldn't quite think of Kronos, Silas -- let alone Caspian -- as 'his people.' "My brothers should be at our camp."

"I will take you to them."

There were several reasons why that was a really bad idea, and yet short of killing his unexpected benefactor and taking his horse, there seemed few other options just at the moment. His own mount was long since gone, and he was not at all keen to trudge through this harsh landscape on foot. "My brothers may not welcome you."

"Leave me to worry about that," this MacLeod said, leading the way to his horse and mounting, reaching a hand down to Methos to draw him up beside him.

For just a second Methos hesitated, then placed his hand in the other's, an addled part of his mind registering the contrast between his fair skin and MacLeod's darker hues, the palm broader, the fingers not so long -- the strength tremendous. Then he shifted his grip to the well-muscled forearm and climbed atop the horse, his hands coming to rest at MacLeod's waist for balance.

"Which way?"

"What?" Methos blinked, looking about him for his bearings -- feeling all too badly in need of them, with the warmth of the other's body seeping into him, with the man's scent enveloping him as his face seemed unable to avoid those long, silken tresses. "Oh -- that way," he pointed, the traitorous thought creeping in that he didn't really care if it was the right direction or not.  


===

 

He felt something akin to disappointment as they drew within sight of the camp, closely followed by a jolt of apprehension at the three forms riding out to meet them. He sat up straighter, pulling away from MacLeod. "Let me handle this," he said, as the air fairly sang with the presence of so many powerful Immortals.

"Are ye not among friends, Methos?"

"That always remains to be seen," Methos murmured, and met Kronos' pale eyes as the Horseman drew up beside them, Silas and Caspian holding off a little ways.

Those cool blue eyes raked first Methos, then Duncan MacLeod, and narrowed with wary suspicion. "Where have you been, Methos?"

It was on the tip of Methos' tongue to say, 'Where you left me for dead, Brother,' but for once he bit his tongue and restrained himself to a simple explanation, concluding, "I would be there now, if not for Duncan MacLeod."

"Then I suppose you are owed my gratitude for my brother's safe return." Kronos spoke the words pleasantly enough, but Methos wasn't fooled for a moment. "I was becoming concerned."

Methos just bet he had been. "Duncan will be staying with us."

Kronos' eyes locked with his. "Will he?"

"Yes." Methos' tone was implacable. "It grow late, after all."

"And we are noted for our hospitality," Kronos returned, his smile mocking.

Methos ignored it, to all outward appearance, and said to Duncan, "You will stay, for the night?"

"Aye, for the night," Duncan said, conducting his own appraisal of Kronos and the situation.

But would he get safely away come the morning? Methos wondered, not missing the way Duncan and Kronos were sizing each other up, not liking the look that passed between them, sizzling with animosity and challenge. The glint of resentful jealousy in Kronos' pale eyes set off several alarms, reminding him all too sharply of their conflict over Cassandra. Somehow, though, he didn't see this situation coming out quite the same way. And for the first time the thought crossed his mind that this Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod might just be a match for Kronos -- and maybe more than a match.

What was the matter with him? He and Kronos had ridden together for centuries, they were brothers in everything but blood -- more than brothers. Yet now his mind was full of thoughts of desertion, of seeing Kronos fall to Duncan MacLeod's blade. Because of Cassandra? Or because Kronos had not come back for him?

Because, for the first time in longer than he could remember, someone had treated him with kindness?

It was all too bewildering, and feeling the need for solitude, he escaped into the sanctuary of his tent.  


~*~

 

Duncan sorted through the box he'd found, taking out an assortment of books and CDs, all ones Methos had borrowed from him back in Seacouver. There was also a small envelope containing an assortment of keys, and a note in Methos' neat hand:  
_MacLeod - These turned up in the stuff I had Joe send over from the States.  
Sorry I kept them so long. The other thing's just something I was going to give   
you for your birthday, before -- Well, before. It's nothing important; throw it  
away, if you want. That's all really. M_

 

Duncan looked over at the pale, still figure, feeling a sudden hollowness in his stomach. That was it, then, just good-bye? Methos didn't even want to try and work things out between them? Or maybe he'd been given sufficient cause to believe that wouldn't be possible. Duncan knew he had not exactly gone out of his way to make Methos feel welcome, and his conscience tweaked him especially sharply as he recalled their confrontation over Steven Keane's body. Of course it never would have come to swords between them, not over that. He'd just been pissed at Methos' killing him, at his and Amanda's interference in what had been none of their business.

It had gone even deeper than that, Duncan knew. The encounter with Keane had profoundly rocked him, raked up so many memories he had tried to put behind him. And it had struck far too close to home. He'd felt as if was looking in a mirror and seeing all his own judgmental righteousness reflected back at him, from Steven Keane's unrelenting eyes. No doubt Methos had appreciated the irony of that, and yet he had never said a word about it, never made more of it than trying to use it as a means of reopening the lines of communication between himself and Mac.

Methos hadn't even gone out of his way to draw comparisons between their actions -- _Death on a Horse vs. Duncan MacLeod, Highland Avenger_ \-- when it must have been sorely tempting. No, he had only reminded Duncan that they all made mistakes, that no one was perfect. And underlying it all had been the quiet assertion that neither of them had any business lobbing rocks at each other. 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.' Duncan had always liked that bit, but it had taken him this long to really understand it, much less try to put it into practice. It was something Darius had tried so hard to teach him. __

And that had really worked its way under his skin like a burr, as had no doubt been the idea, when Methos had dragged Darius' name into the mix. The worst part had been having to admit, with grudging reluctance, that it was not an unfair comparison.

Ah, but Darius had led an army across Europe, not a band of self-serving marauders. Yes, of course, that made all the difference. The most exasperating thing was that had been precisely the distinction he had been making, until finally recognizing its foolishness. Darius would have never marked it. Innocents had fallen in the path of Darius' army, mortal lives had been destroyed. Grayson had been Darius' closest friend, his trusted right hand -- for how many centuries? What did that say of the man Darius had once been? More than that, what kind of Immortal would strike down another of their kind, unarmed and harmless, as Darius had done at the gates of Paris?

The hardest question of all: In what way, precisely, had Darius -- at that point in his life -- been any different from Methos, from Kronos? It seemed like the worst kind of betrayal to draw any kind of comparison between his old friend and Kronos, and yet Duncan knew Darius would have been the first to do precisely that. To ask the Highlander why he was so at ease with Darius' past, yet so quick to cast out Methos?

The answer was so simple, of course, the truest ones always were: Darius' past had never risen up to smack Duncan MacLeod in the face.

Not that Duncan hadn't tried to reason his way out of that, telling himself it was different because Darius' hadn't hidden his past; Grayson had been a known quantity, not a nasty surprise.

There was more, though. Duncan had never questioned the magical transformation of Darius because the other Immortal had fit the part so well. He had been wise and enlightened, all the things Duncan associated with goodness. Methos, on the other hand -- from the moment they had met, Methos had completely failed to live up to preconceptions of what the legendary, oldest Immortal ought to be. It wasn't something Duncan had ever consciously thought of, until he'd met that other Methos, that strange, anonymous man who had masqueraded as the oldest and wisest, and who had fit the bill so much better, on the surface, than the real thing. That had made Duncan take a second look at Methos and begin to find something lacking, and thereby setting the stage, he supposed, for discovering Methos' feet were indeed made of clay. It hadn't been a conscious reevaluation, but why else would he have been so quick to believe Cassandra, if the first seeds of doubt had not already been planted? If he hadn't already begun to question just who and what this ancient really was?

And Duncan knew it wasn't even fair to insist that Methos was supposed to be better than the rest of them. By virtue of what? The number of years lived, the experience and knowledge he should have acquired in so long a time? He didn't know. All he knew what that -- in the eyes of Duncan MacLeod, at any rate -- Methos wasn't supposed to be 'just a guy,' a jaded cynic with a been there/done that nonchalance toward every damn thing in the world. He, for God's sake, was not supposed to have ever ridden with the likes of Kronos, been Death on a pale horse -- murdered, raped, and enslaved a woman like Cassandra.

His brooding, dark gaze rested on Methos again, as the older Immortal stirred restlessly in his sleep. In his heart, Duncan knew this man was not that Horseman of so long ago. He even, foolishly perhaps, thought that Methos of three thousand years past may not have, entirely, been the monster he'd been made to believe. Why should Methos have told the simple, unadulterated truth about that, any more than he did anything? That was in his heart, though; his head still hadn't quite reconciled the two.

And maybe that was the crux of the dilemma: not the truth he had discovered, but way he'd found out, having it so brutally hurled in his way like that, when it was so hard to sort through it all and make sense of it. No, there would have been no good way to learn about the Horsemen, but Duncan stubbornly insisted to himself that if Methos had simply told him, before everything blew up in their faces, that it would have been different. He didn't doubt he would have still been angry, disturbed, but just not to so extreme a degree. He for certain would not have been hit with such a sense of betrayal, and left wondering if anything Methos had ever told him was the truth.

At least he now knew why Methos' stories of the past had always been strangely impersonal. That had long puzzled, and frustrated him -- hence his professed boredom that day, as they were leaving the television studio. He didn't care how tall Nero was, or what Caesar's favorite food was; he didn't care if Methos had supervised the construction of the Pyramids -- unless the story revealed something of this elusive man he had welcomed into his life. And that had always been the main ingredient missing. Now he knew why Methos had been so chary of revealing too much about himself, stripping away too many layers.

Methos' words to him at Elysium Church had haunted Duncan ever since, that calm assurance that Duncan MacLeod could never understand the man Methos had been, all the things he had done and experienced in his life. Nor had the Highlander yet determined which smarted more: that confident presumption on Methos' part, or that it had been all-too on target. At least to a qualified degree, because the truth of it was that the Horsemen were not all that hard to grasp. For all Kronos' grandiose proclamations, there was nothing all that unique about the Horsemen. History was littered with their kind; hell, sometimes history made them heroes, depending on the times and circumstances -- look at the Crusades: looting and pillaging in the name of the Holy Church, and none of it having a thing to do with God. No, Duncan could understand the Horsemen. What eluded him was the reason for Methos' participation. He couldn't quite shake a lingering suspicion that, while Methos may have been exaggerating, he may not have been lying when he'd said he liked it.

Honesty compelled Duncan to admit that, but for fortune -- and Methos -- he might have learned to like it too. He still remembered that feeling too well from his own brush with darkness. And what if he hadn't been able to reintegrate himself, after the Dark Quickening? What if that evil inside him had swamped him completely? He could remember being at Darius' church, overwhelmed by what he'd become, what he'd done, and proclaiming that he could not live with it. But what if there had been no choice? No Methos to help him find his way back? Where would he be now, what would he be doing? It chilled him to have to consider that that Duncan MacLeod might have been drawn to someone like Kronos, that he might have cheerfully partaken of all the mayhem.

And what difference that he wasn't quite in his right mind? he wondered.

"Come on, Methos," he spoke softly to the figure lying so still and quiet, "wake up."  


~*~

 

Methos turned a frowning look on Kronos as the other Horseman crowded him, and he tried to shift away, but Kronos' hand clamped on his arm to hold him there. After a moment, Methos stilled and didn't shrug off the arm Kronos heaved about his shoulders -- but he knew his brother would find no yielding in the body he was trying to embrace. Let him have that much, Methos thought; Duncan MacLeod, sitting across him at the campfire, would have his full attention.

There was something so compelling about this stranger, this Highlander, as he called himself. Something not only new under the sun, but refreshingly so, calling to elements in Methos that had for so long been hidden away, until he had nearly forgotten they ever existed. He felt as if he had been asleep for an age, but was now coming awake.

And he knew how dangerous that could be. If Kronos' jealousy could not tolerate Cassandra distracting him, what would be unleashed if Kronos guessed this dark-eyed stranger was subverting him so much more thoroughly -- with nothing but a kind word?

Would the Highlander take up the challenge, if it came to that? Methos wondered, even as another part of him rebelled at the idea of being anyone's spoils of war. And suddenly frustrated by the entire business, he pulled free of Kronos and climbed to his feet, stalking away to his tent. He wasn't surprised to find another presence soon coming after him, and looked up from removing his boots, expecting to find an angry and demanding Kronos there.

Instead he blinked in surprise at the sight of Duncan MacLeod looming in the entrance, and he felt a dangerous thrill of excitement shoot up his spine. "What is it?"

"Where am I to sleep?"

It was such a simple question, but fraught with so many conflicting feelings. Part of Methos wanted to tell the Highlander to go, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Horseman's camp. Another part, though, didn't think he could bear to be parted from his remarkable person, so newly introduced to him.

"You may...sleep here, if you would like to," Methos offered, feeling a ludicrous shyness.

"I would, aye," Duncan agreed, settling onto a pile of furs and tugging at his own boots.

Methos tried not to look, tried to only concentrate on his own undressing, but his gaze kept straying to the Highlander, fascinated by the other's disrobing. In part it was simply that he was intrigued as to how the curious garment -- a kilt, he was told -- came to be fastened. There was more than simple curiosity at play, however, as more and more bronzed flesh was bared in the flickering tallow light. At that moment, Methos would have been hard-pressed to name a woman to rival this Highlander's beauty -- much less a man with equal charms.

Nor did his admiring gaze go unnoticed. Duncan gazed back at him as boldly, saying, "What are ye starin' at?" in a soft voice that, far from putting Methos off, seemed to be inviting more.

With an effort, Methos looked away from the beguiling form. "Nothing," he answered as softly, knowing it would be the height of folly to encourage this to go any further. "Go to sleep -- you'll want to make an early start in the morning," he said, trying to put some cold distance into his voice.

He wasn't sure if he was relieved, or disappointed, as the Highlander complied, settling onto his pallet. In his own bed, Methos found sleep very elusive for a long time as he lay there in the darkness, filled with a heightened awareness of the man sleeping just an arm's length away. It would be so easy to move over that little distance, to entwine his body with the Highlander's... With a soft groan of frustration, Methos rolled over, away from Duncan MacLeod and temptation.  


~*~

 

Curiosity having gotten the better of him, Duncan unwrapped Methos' gift to him, and felt a little stunned at what he discovered. How could Methos have thought he would throw this away? he wondered as he examined the book. It was a slim, beautifully bound volume, filled with text and elaborate borders that reminded him of the work he'd seen at Brother Paul's monastery. Even more than the exquisite work, he was touched by the content: **The Legend of the Highlander**. It was the story Methos had invented to entertain the refugees from Mary Lindsey's daycare center one day last summer. Anne had called urgently, explaining the water had been shut off at the daycare and a lot of the children didn't have anywhere else to go -- and would Duncan mind if they spent the day at the dojo? Methos had arrived while he and Richie were rushing to child-proof the place, and Duncan had anticipated a declaration from Methos that 'he didn't do children,' followed by a prompt and thorough vanishing act for the duration. Instead, aside from a snide comment about how Duncan needed to learn to just say no, Methos had actually deigned to pitch in and lend a hand. And once the munchkins arrived, he had comfortably donned a new persona, that of story, that had fit him amazingly well -- and it had occurred to Duncan, then, that some of those sixty-eight wives might well have had children who had called the world's oldest man Daddy. It had been a startling insight, and something he'd always meant to pursue, but the time had never been right.

He hadn't forgotten that afternoon, though, Methos taking charge of the tribe and holding their attention with one story after another, like a latter-day Scheherazade. It had been a bit of shock, though, as he'd realized Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had been cast in the role of a mythic warrior on a magical quest, complete with colorful sidekicks and fair damsels (although he had his doubts about Amanda ever having been a fair damsel), and replete with dastardly villains. He'd spotted Kalas and Kristen easily enough, but at the time no bells had been rung by the appearance of an evil quartet of marauders -- The Four Riders of Doom --and he had only supposed them to be especially vivid figments of Methos' imagination. Now he recognized them all too well, and had to wonder if that had been Methos' way of offering a broad hint; that Methos may have wanted him to ask about the story, and where those marauders came from.

Maybe, he sighed. It was always so hard to know with Methos.

Turning the pages, he found the part where the Highlander met Nekrotarati, the world's oldest -- and wisest, of course -- man, who somehow wound up with most of the best lines, and all of the beer thereafter.

And Methos thought he would want to pitch this in the trash? Duncan shook his head, looking at his friend, pained that they had, in Methos' mind, come to such a place in their relationship. A part of him, hurt and a little angry, wanted to demand how Methos could think he would do anything but treasure a gift like this. Another part of him knew he hadn't given his friend much cause, lately, to think otherwise.

He put the book safely away for now, and leaned forward, beginning to worry at Methos' being out for so long. Gently, he patted Methos' cheek and thought the other Immortal was hovering on the edge of coming back. Those long, thick lashes fluttered as those ancient, ageless, eyes were about to open and fix him with a sardonically amused look. The moment passed, though, and one elegant hand came up to push Duncan's away, the long fingers curling around Duncan's hand after another moment, holding on lightly.

The Highlander didn't attempt to pull free. Instead he found himself drawing a good deal of comfort from that touch. He did, just, resist giving into the impulse to touch Methos' face again, to let his fingers stroke through the soft, dark hair. He did raise Methos' hand to his lips for a moment, somehow not at all taking himself by surprise.

Silently, he urged Methos to come back to him -- now.  


~*~

 

The sudden rain still hadn't eased up as the afternoon began to slide into evening, and Methos found he didn't mind in the least. He was quite content to stay in his tent, going over some scrolls he'd come by, and enjoying the company of Duncan MacLeod. He wasn't even going to pretend which occupation held the most appeal for him. The Highlander's tales of his homeland appealed to his imagination, and sparked something that hovered on the edge of memory. Sometimes he could remember a land like that, green and cool, lush, where everything he knew now was stark and barren. The memory always danced just out of reach at the last moment, though.

There was a simple, forgotten pleasure in such conversation, to speak with someone about matters that weren't concerned with planning the next raid, or dividing the spoils. He enjoyed Silas' company, but in no age would the man be considered a great wit; and the less he had to do with Caspian, the better. Once, Kronos had been good company, possessing a lively mind that had still had room for wonder.

It had been a long time now, he realized, since a gulf had begun to grow between himself and Kronos, the business with Cassandra had only thrown everything into sharper relief. And now this Duncan MacLeod, exotic, and refreshing as the rain, came to exacerbate things further.

Sensing the intrusion of another Immortal, Methos and MacLeod turned in unison to see Kronos draw back the tent flap and come inside. "Methos, we need to speak."

"I'm busy."

"With what?" Kronos demanded, his pale eyes flicking from Methos to MacLeod and back.

Voice cool, remote, Methos said, "That's no concern of yours."

That, of course, was a mistake. In a flash, Kronos' hand shot out, striking Methos hard across the face. "I have had enough of your insolence, Brother!" His hand drew back to strike again, and was seized in MacLeod's larger one, the grip painful to judge by Kronos' expression.

The Highlander used his own advantage in size to great effect, and Kronos found himself dumped on his ass. Another mistake. Furious now, Kronos sprang to his feet, his sword drawn and met by MacLeod's. The fast and furious battle quickly spilled outside and drew the attention of Silas and Caspian, as the combatants slashed and struck at each other, both drawing blood as they slogged away in the mud and the rain. As Methos had thought, they were very evenly matched, and the fight played out to a draw, MacLeod and Kronos on their knees in the mud, breathing hard, glaring murder at each other. Before they could resume, Methos stepped forward, reaching for the Highlander and drawing him to his feet -- Methos' gaze never leaving Kronos' face, both of them knowing what he was stating by his actions.

Even Silas and Caspian grasped it; the latter eyeing him a feral grin that said he looked forward to what lay ahead, while Silas' gaze held a mournful reproach.

Methos turned his back on all of them, pushing Duncan ahead of him into the tent.  


===

 

The Highlander's wounds bathed away, Methos carried the basin of dirty water outside and tossed it away. The rain had stopped and the sky cleared to fill with stars. He looked across the encampment and found Kronos watching him, Silas and Caspian lurking nearby, waiting for the command. Caspian threw an eager look at Kronos, who shook his head after a long moment -- his eyes locked with Methos' -- and withdrew back into his tent.

Releasing a pent up breath, Methos retreated as well, fetching up against the Highlander's solid form. "Ye'll be safe with me," Duncan promised. "I will not let them harm you."

Methos gave him a dubious look. "You'll take on all three of them?"

"If I have to, aye," MacLeod promised softly, his breath warm against Methos' face. "It does not have to come to that," he whispered, his hands coming up to curve around Methos' shoulders. "Come away with me," he urged.

"They'd come after us," Methos countered, beginning to lose himself in those rich, dark eyes.

"They won't." Duncan moved in, his warm lips brushing Methos' cheek with a feather-light touch.

"I can't." Methos leaned into that touch, wanting more. "I owe Kronos my life."

"Do ye owe him your soul?" Duncan murmured against his lips, his tongue darting against them, asking entry -- and Methos gave it, welcoming the warm, eager intrusion into his mouth, meeting it, tangling his fingers in the Highlander's heavy, dark hair as he was lowered to a pallet heaped with furs. Clothing was removed, discarded, and their bodies came together. Methos caressed warm, soft skin stretched taut over hard muscle; he was petted and fondled in return, every inch of him kissed and cherished as their bodies moved together in an ageless dance...  


~*~

 

"Methos?" Duncan patted his fingers against Methos' cheek more firmly as the older Immortal began to twist and writhe on the couch, words and whimpers spilling from his lips, nothing clear except for Duncan's name repeated over and over with increasing urgency. "Methos, I'm here -- I'm right here. Come on, wake up." And, finally, the hazel eyes fluttered open and returned a muzzy look, one hand reaching to Duncan's cheek, those long, slim fingers gently brushing the bronzed skin in a tender caress. In another moment, however, Methos' gaze sharpened, as he took in and fully registered his surroundings, a pink flush warming his angular features.

"Sorry," he murmured, letting his hand drop away and lowering his gaze. "I thought..." He couldn't seem to voice it, though, shaking his head as he made to sit up, pushing the comforter away -- only to fall back against the cushions, one hand going to his head. "Ohhh..."

"Hey!" Duncan reached out to steady him, get him settled back comfortable. "Take it easy," he said, moving to sit beside him and ease an arm around his shoulders. "You had a pretty good knock on the head, give yourself some time."

After a few moments, Methos took a steadier breath and let himself relax into Duncan's hold for a bit. Then he drew away a little to look at Duncan. "I was unconscious?"

"Out cold for about an hour. You must have slipped on deck and hit your head."

"I don't remember that." Methos sighed and shrugged. "I was just stopping by to drop off some things of yours I'd borrowed."

"Yeah, I found the box. I'd forgotten you had them."

A wry smile briefly graced Methos' features. "If I dig around long enough I'll probably find some scrolls overdue at the Library of Alexandria."

Mac smiled. "Spend a lot of time there?"

"A century or two, on and off. Marcus and I tried to save what we could when the fire started, but we didn't get away with much."

"You know Marcus?" Duncan said, wanting to keep the conversation going.

"Yes." The wryness was still there, but colored with some bitterness now. "Not everyone from my past is the scum of the earth." Abruptly, he pulled away from Mac, making it to his feet again and managing to take a couple of unsteady steps, before his knees buckled.

Mac was there in an instant, catching him before he fell, pressing him close to his breast, burying his face in the short, soft hair and breathing in the scent of him. "Methos, just take it easy, will you? You're in no condition to be going anywhere right now."

"I'm fine," Methos said, his voice muffled from his face being pressed into Mac's shoulder. "No Immortal ever died of a concussion."

"Yeah, well let's keep it that way," Duncan said, guiding him back to the sofa. The knock on the head wasn't that serious, except that it had hardly left Methos in optimum condition, should he encounter another Immortal on his way home. Not to mention, of course, that Duncan plain did not want him going anywhere right now, not yet. "Will you eat something?"

Methos looked back at him, eyes narrowing as if he was trying to suss out what this was all about. "I suppose," he said, a note of caution in his voice that wouldn't have been there a few months before.

As he fixed a light supper for them, Duncan wondered how to bring up the subject that had bothered him since reading Methos' good-bye note, and supposed the best way was straight out. There had been enough of dodging issues, on both sides, and one of them had to set a precedent. "Why did you have Joe ship your things over from the States?"

"Gee, let me think -- maybe because it's easier to get to them that way?" was the flip reply, which strangely reassured Duncan. If Methos could be sarcastic and flippant, he had to be feeling better.

He wasn't going to be diverted from the subject, however. "Does that mean you're not going back to Seacouver?"

Methos didn't reply at once, and Duncan looked up from the warm bread he was slicing to see the older Immortal resting his head against the back of the couch, something so lost and careworn in the pose that Duncan felt swamped by a wash of bittersweet tenderness. The regret and loneliness captured in that seemingly casual sprawl so closely mirrored his own feelings right now.

"Methos," he prompted gently, after a moment, "were you planning on going back to Seacouver?"

"No," came the reply, couched in a soft timbre that carried fifty centuries' worth of disappointment and resignation. "I really don't make a habit of going where I'm not wanted, MacLeod."

"You're still in Paris." Duncan hoped that didn't sound as accusatory as he feared; it wasn't how he meant it.

Methos sighed. "Not for much longer," he said. "I have a few things to settle here, then..." He shrugged, a sad, rueful smile touching his mouth. "I won't darken your doorstep again, Highlander."

Damn, Methos had meant it to be good-bye, Duncan realized. Good-bye forever. He brought the hot soup and bread over to the table, wondering what on earth he could say or do at this point that would make him change his mind and stay. Maybe nothing but the simple truth, he considered as Methos sat at the table after a moment's hesitation.

He waited until Methos had gotten some of the soup and bread in him, though -- and gave himself a little more time, too, he admitted, because the next words out of his mouth had the potential of changing everything between them, forever.

===

 

More intent on shredding his bread than eating it, Methos watched the Highlander, wondering what was going through his head now. MacLeod couldn't actually want him there, not after everything. But then why hadn't Mac just told him to shove off? It had actually been a relief, earlier, when he'd found the barge empty, as he had really not been looking forward to confronting Mac again, right then. Confront him and have to explain that he was slinking off into the night -- and have to see how welcome that news was, to know Mac couldn't wait for Methos to vanish back into obscurity and never cross his path again.

If he'd just managed to get away without knocking himself senseless... He sighed, and sipped at his tea. That was pretty much the story of his life, wasn't it? If only he'd done this, if only he'd done the other; if only he had met Duncan MacLeod and not Kronos so long ago, he thought, remembering the dream and feeling a wistful longing that it could have been true.

What little appetite he had vanished with those memories, and Methos pushed to his feet, looking around for his coat and shoes. Finding the latter, he reached to gather them up only to have MacLeod snatch them from his grasp.

"Mac," he grabbed for the shoes, "what're you doing? Give me my shoes."

"No." The Highlander clutched the well-worn footwear to his chest in a manner that would have been comical, in another place and time.

"Fine." Methos snagged his coat and put it on. "Going barefoot is not a novelty for me, MacLeod," he informed the other Immortal, wondering what had got into him. "I thought it was me who got clonked on the head," he said, starting for the door -- only to find his way blocked by two hundred pounds of determined Scot. "Mac--"

"Don't go."

"And why the hell not?" Methos demanded, exasperated.

"Because I don't want you to."

Nonplused now, the older man regarded the younger, completely thrown for a loop. "Since when?"

"Since always." Mac let the shoes drop as he came closer. "I want you to stay."

"In Paris?"

"Paris, Seacouver -- wherever we are."

Methos' eyes grew large as he tried to fend off the hope that began to faintly flutter in him. "We meaning...?"

Mac moved closer still. "Meaning -- you, me. Us. Together."

Methos wished someone would pinch him because he had to be dreaming still, Mac couldn't possibly be saying what it sounded like. "Mac -- I don't know what you're saying."

Duncan's smile was warm, wistful. "How many languages do you want me to try it in? Methos, I don't want you to leave. Not Paris, not me. Right now I don't even want you setting one foot off the barge." His smile was a little shy now, a light in his dark eyes that said he couldn't quite believe he was actually saying this -- but he meant every word.

It was what Methos had so dearly wanted to hear, part of it anyway, and yet he was so afraid to believe it, to reach out and accept what was being offered. He had nowhere to seek refuge except in rattiness. "Really?" he said, and donned the persona that always put the Highlander off, the one that mocked everything the Highlander held dear. The one he hadn't used since that day in Seacouver, when he'd flung every horror from his past in Duncan's face, and broken both their hearts. "So I get to bask in your magnamity -- until the next unsavory bit of my past turns up? Then what? I get exiled from the Clan MacLeod again until you decide I've done sufficient penance?" The anger was real now, fueled by all the hurt, by the fear that what Duncan offered would never be enough, never run as deep as he wanted. "Well fuck you! I don't need that!"

Instead of meeting the anger with his own, Mac only watched him with eyes filled with warmth and caring, hurting for both of them. "Then tell me what you do need."

"I--" Methos faltered, and looked back at him helplessly. "I don't know.," he said in a small, lost voice. "I don't know." Furious with the idiot tears that were stinging his eyes, he turned and started to move away, but Duncan stopped him and turned him back, one hand cupping his face so Methos had to look at him. What Methos saw were dark eyes as full and bright as his own, but with a soft smile tugging at the full lips as well. "Mac..." _Please don't do this -- not if you don't mean it._

"Shh, shh," Duncan whispered, the deep timbre rumbling through him and soothing him as Methos let himself be drawn near. "Just come here," Duncan murmured, and Methos let himself be taken in, let himself be enfolded in Duncan's arms and warmth. In another moment he had wound his own arms across Mac's broad back, hanging on for dear life.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against Duncan's neck. "I'm so damn sorry for everything."

Gentle fingers reached into his hair and moved him so their foreheads were pressed together. So close they shared each other's breath, so close they could drown in each other's eyes. "Me too," Duncan told him. "I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me. I'm sorry for judging you for what you were -- and forgetting who you are, here, now, today. I'm the one who needs forgiveness, Methos. Can you give it?"

"There's nothing to forgive, Mac. You had every right to be angry. I never meant to betray you, to...use you like that. Things just...got away from me so fast."

"I know, I know that now," Mac said, pulling him a little closer.

They stood like that another moment, Methos becoming far too aware of Duncan's presence, verging on a sensory overload that was likely to prove embarrassing if he didn't put a stop to it. "Yes, well," he pushed himself away from Mac, "that's probably enough histrionics for one evening."

Duncan let him go, saying, "You think so?" in a matching tone. Something lingered in his smile, though, that made Methos a little apprehensive. The kind of look that made Methos feel like he was a lavish banquet, and Mac hadn't eaten in weeks.

Distance was absolutely required before his fantasy life went completely overboard.

"So," Methos said, "may I have my shoes now?"

"What for?"

"Because...it's late." And he had to get going. Didn't he?

"But maybe not too late," was Duncan's obscure reply, and that fluttering hope suddenly soared as Methos wondered what he was about to let himself in for.

"Not too late for what?" he asked, as nonchalant as possible with his whole world spinning on its axis.

"For us to talk," Mac said, steering him back to the couch.

"About?" Methos prompted, scrunching into his corner as Mac relaxed at the other end.

"Us."

There was that word again. Never had Methos been so alarmed at a simple pronoun. "What do you want from me, Mac?"

"Not much -- just the truth."

Not much was right, Methos thought, making a sour face. "Yeah, well I tried that once -- you didn't seem to like it much."

Duncan sighed, gazing intently at the tips of his boots. "Not the way I learned it, no." He turned to face Methos, one leg tucked under the other. "Did you, ever, want to tell me? Was that a hint?"

Looking where he indicated, Methos saw the book he'd made for Mac, for his birthday, and felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. He didn't know what had possessed him to put that together in the first place, let alone actually give it to him. "What do you mean?"

Duncan reached for the book and leafed through its smooth pages, stopping just about three quarters of the way through. "The Four Riders of Doom," he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a sort of rueful smirk. "Was I supposed to ask about their prototypes?"

Methos shrugged, and truthfully answered, "I don't know. Maybe." It didn't have to mean anything, just like the dream. He sighed and wondered what Sean Burns would have made of it all. "It was just a story, MacLeod."

"Uh-huh," Mac said, his tone and smile making it clear he didn't believe a word of it. "Thank you, by the way. It's beautiful. It must have taken you a long time to do."

"Umm." Methos worried at a loose button on his shirt. "It's not like my social calendar's bursting at the seams." He'd been living in some idiotic dream world, hadn't he, thinking he could indefinitely enjoy the life he'd found in Seacouver. Hang out with MacLeod and Joe, and just generally kill a couple of decades. And never worry that his past would catch up to him. Everything had been going perfectly too -- right up to the moment Kronos stepped out of the shadows and brought everything crashing down.

Apparently the only thing he had absolutely nailed, in the course of five thousand years, was how to be a self-deluding moron.

"Look," he said, "do you want me to apologize for what I did, who I was? Donate all my money to Cassandra's favorite charity? Write, _I will not rape, loot, or pillage_ ten thousand times? What?"

"None of that. I told you, Methos: who you were doesn't matter."

"Mac -- who I am is because of who I was."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Methos searched his eyes, looking for the truth there. "Can you accept it?"

"Yes. I can -- I do." The dark eyes met his straight on. "I just need you to tell me why."

Methos' eyebrows drew together and he shook his head, not sure where this was headed. "Why what?"

"Why you were with Kronos."

Methos' frowned deepened. "Mac -- I can't, not in any way you'd understand."

"Try," Duncan urged him.

Methos stared back at him, helpless again, not having the words to explain, not really ever having understood it all himself. As with everything, it had been such a gradual progression: years turned to centuries, then millennia, and there was nothing and no one left in the world he knew. Lovers, wives and children gone to dust, their faces grown vague and their names forgotten. And what did it matter? What had anything ever mattered? It all disappeared, everyone died, and left him right back where he'd started. Such a small progression, then, from raging against the ephemeral world of mortals, to wanting to destroy it. What difference did it make? Kronos had always reasoned with him, in the early days. They all died anyway.

"I was already something like two thousand years old when Kronos found me," he began, finding the words at last, some of them at least, and speaking them with no way of gauging if they conveyed any of what was needed. He hoped so. This young one had known pain and loss and disappointment, far more than his share in his young life; the loss of love gone sour, or lost to time and Fate's capricious, cruel whims. Imagine that, he told the Highlander, not over a mere span of centuries, but thousands of years' worth. And then maybe have some idea of what it was like to be so numbed inside that, when a Kronos came along, still exuberant with life, you got swept along with his joyous mayhem and lost yourself even further for another thousand years, or more. Better some twisted illusion of life, than seeing only an infinity of nothing ahead.

He stopped speaking and dared a look at Duncan, and was taken aback by the expression in the other's face. He had expected judgment, again, distaste and incomprehension. How could he expect Duncan to understand, when he barely grasped it himself? What he found, though, was compassion and regret -- and a wistful sadness he almost took for pity. "For God's sake don't feel sorry for me," he said crossly. "If you'd known me then, pity is the last thing you'd have felt."

"It's the last thing I feel now," Duncan returned, a chiding note in his voice, but no anger. "I wish I had known you then."

Recalling his dream, Methos said wryly, "What -- you would have taken me away from it all?"

"Aye," Duncan said, his voice gone as soft as his gaze, "I would have. Whatever you may have owed Kronos, you did not owe him your soul."

Methos blinked and gave Mac a sharp look. "Why'd you say that? Did I say something while I was unconscious?" he demanded, suspicious of being teased, or something, and not liking it.

"You did," Duncan said, "but I don't know what most of it was." He gave Methos a coy look that bordered on smugness. "You said my name a lot, especially towards the end. So what were you dreaming about?" he asked boldly.

Damn it to fucking hell, Methos thought as he felt a blush burn his cheeks again and surged to his feet, suddenly desperate to be gone.  


===

 

Seeing Methos intent on running away -- again -- Duncan quickly moved to block him, something like tender amusement bubbling up inside him at the flustered, desperate look Methos cast about him as he sought some way out of this. Not a chance, he thought, and said, "For the last time, Methos: you are not going anywhere."

"You're going to stop me?"

"Uh-huh. We were going to talk about us, remember?"

The green-gold eyes squinted back at him, the small -- delectable -- mouth pursing. "Yes, and then you wanted the _Reader's Digest_ version of Methos: The Early Years," the older Immortal rejoined.

"Yeah, well," Duncan snagged him by the coat lapels and began reeling him in, "something tells me they're subjects destined to go hand in hand." Kind of like them, if he had anything to say about it. "Now, what were you dreaming?"

Methos glared back at him. "I don't know. I don't remember. And it's none of your damn business anyway."

"It is when you're dreaming about me." Duncan tugged him closer. "'_Duncan, ohhh, Duncan_,'" he mimicked in a low, breathy voice -- and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as another blush suffused Methos' face, the hazel eyes wide with furious dismay.

"I did not!"

"And how would you know if you don't remember?" Duncan drew him a millimeter nearer. "Tell me that."

"I don't have to tell you anything." Methos wasn't making even a token effort to get away, however.

Duncan's voice grew huskier -- and not with play now. "Were you dreaming of us together, like this?" he said and loosened his hold enough to reach a hand to Methos' head, stroking his fingers through the dark, soft hair.

"It was just a dream," Methos quietly insisted, his breath warm against Mac's throat. "It didn't mean anything."

"It might mean everything, Methos." Duncan pressed his lips to Methos' temple. "It's a dream I've had too, you know," he murmured as Methos' lashes fluttered down to hide his eyes. And the was the simplest truth of all: the hurt had been so bad because the feeling between them ran so deep. "Tell me." Duncan brought him that little bit closer that let their bodies touch, his arms holding Methos close again, feeling the heat of his body even through the layers of clothes. "Come on," he breathed against Methos' ear.

Methos' breath caught in a gasp for a moment, and then he began telling him, trying to downplay any significance. "It never would have happened like that, Mac," he finished, pulling back a little, daring to meet his eyes again -- hope and uncertainty warring in his own gaze. "You would have hated me then."

"Maybe," Duncan said, knowing that might be true. "And maybe I'd have been a different person then." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We know each other now, and I don't think hate is any of what's between us."

"But--"

Duncan stopped his lips with two fingers pressed against them. "No. We're none of us perfect, remember?" He felt the lips move in a smile. "I think we're a whole lot better together than apart, though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Duncan held him comfortable, delighted to be doing that, to finally touch this friend as intimately as he desired -- to feel Methos' arms go around him in turn and see if their bodies could merge just a tiny fraction more. "So, I think you skipped over the best part. What happened after I fought Kronos?"

"Umm," Methos' fair skin colored faintly again, "we...you--kissed me," he confessed, ducking his head.

"Yeah? Like this?" Duncan cupped Methos' chin and tilted his head just a little, so he could press a soft, tender kiss to Methos' mouth -- that first, perfect kiss that was so much more than he'd ever dared dream. He almost wanted to open his eyes and see if fireworks were really go off around them.

"I don't know," Methos said when his mouth was free. "Maybe if you tried it again?" he added, his eyes bright with hope.

Mac couldn't possibly disappointment him, and their lips and tongues met and explored each other's mouths with judicious attention to finding just the right, perfect technique. Somehow the process found them sinking onto the bed at some point, clothing opened and discarded as their hands commenced another journey of discovery.

"Maybe we should think about this?" Methos said, as Mac was unzipping his jeans.

"Nope." Mac dragged the denim over the other's slim hips and off, the boxers quickly yanked off and tossed after the jeans. "You go right on thinking if you have to, Methos -- I'm going into man of action mode, though."

Methos' head went back as he laughed, any lingering tension and uncertainty released in that one gesture. And Duncan could not resist the temptation of that vulnerable length of throat, running his tongue along it and down to Methos' chest to taste the salty sweetness of his skin. He felt his lover's beautiful, elegant hands winding into his hair and lifting him from he suckled a tender nipple.

"You've done this before," Methos said, surprise blending with faint accusation in his voice.

Duncan gave him a smug look. "Did you think I hadn't?"

"There was nothing in your Chronicles."

Duncan drew back a little, eyes wide. "You've read my Chronicles?"

Methos had the good grace to look moderately sheepish. "I was curious."

"Ohhh -- you were curious, were you?" Duncan's dark eyes held a teasing glint that should have warned his bed partner. "You get curious about me and blithely traipse through my Chronicles, is that it? Meanwhile, I get curious about you and get handed some revisionist claptrap -- oh, and a dissertation on how Helen of Troy wasn't a ten. I think this requires some kind of redress."

Methos' eyes were wide -- with delight and anticipation. "What did you have in mind?"

"Hmmm...I think you have to suffer torments the likes of which you've never known."

"Yeah?" Methos looked interested.

"Yeah," Duncan confirmed, lowering his head to claim Methos' mouth, his hands buried in the short, silky hair to hold him still as he drank his fill of long, deep kisses that barely began to quench his thirst.   


===

 

A long while later, Methos shifted around, raising up on an elbow to look at the man lying against him, his long, elegant fingers reaching out to brush along the warm skin, half convinced this was just another dream. The hand that came up to capture his felt very real, though, as did the gaze of the dark eyes trained on him.

"We really did it, didn't we?" he said, marveling that it could be true.

"Yep -- twice," Duncan confirmed, looking smug and tender all at once. He kissed the back of Methos' hand. "What are you thinking?"

"That this is, potentially, the stupidest thing either of us will ever do," Methos admitted.

"Umm hmm. Probably get one or both of killed too," Duncan conceded, still smiling at him.

Head cocked, Methos said, "And that doesn't bother you?"

"It bothers me a lot. But not as much as the idea of never having this, never walking this path with you." Duncan sat up a little, looking at him intently. "When Tessa died, for a long time all I could think was that if she'd never met me, she'd be alive, somewhere. I was so wrapped up in the what-ifs that I forgot the joy we had found together -- all the things I never would have known, without her." He touched Methos' face. "Wherever it ends up, the journey is always worth it. You know that better than anyone."

"I forget, though, sometimes." He'd forgotten a lot of things -- until Mac, until Alexa. "'And whatever sky's above me, a heart for any fate,'" he murmured, half to himself.

"Something like," Duncan said, taking Methos' face in his hands and leaning close to press feather-light kisses to his forehead, eyelids, and cheeks before seeking his mouth again for a soft, tender kiss that only sought to confirm their connection. Satisfied for now, Duncan settled back down, holding Methos to him. "Isn't that Byron?"

Methos drew back, giving him a thoughtful look. This was probably something they needed to talk about, especially since the poet-turned-rock star was slated to make a concert stop in Paris pretty soon. Feeling inspired, Methos sat up, saying, "Speaking of skies above us -- what would you say to a change of scenery?"

"Well, it is time I was getting back to Seacouver." Duncan gave Methos a searching look. "You _will_ come." It wasn't exactly a question or a statement, but more a tentative assumption.

Methos' mouth twitched. "Oh, I'll come all right -- but I wasn't thinking Seacouver."

"No?" Duncan drew a finger along Methos' face, rubbing light over his lower lip. "Somewhere warm?"

"Umm hmm." Methos caught the finger between his lips, sucking hard, until the color rose in Duncan's cheeks and his eyes grew darker with renewed passion. Methos let the finger go, laying his hand along Duncan's face, treasuring the warmth -- the closeness that he had seldom dared to dream could ever be his. "I was thinking somewhere far, far away from all our cares and woes," he said, his voice low and intimate.

Duncan smiled. "I like the sound of that. When can you be packed and ready to go?"

Methos gave him a get serious look. "Mac, I am always packed and ready to go."

"Sorry, forgot who I was talking to for a moment," Duncan returned, grinning at him. "'Kay. " He turned his face into Methos' caressing hand, pressing a kiss to the palm. "Pick a spot, and we'll be gone tomorrow."

"Just like that?" Methos said, welcoming this burst of spontaneity, even while being skeptical of it.

"Just like that," Duncan confirmed.

"What about Joe, Amanda, Richie?"

"We'll send 'em postcards when we get there."

Methos gave the Highlander a bemused look. "This isn't what I expected, when I came here tonight."

"I gathered that," Duncan said, smoothing his fingers along Methos' brow and up into his hair.

Methos looked at him through lowered lashes. "You really want to do this?" He knew he probably sounded pitiful, but he couldn't help it. He had wanted this for so long, been so certain Kronos' arrival had put it forever out of reach, it was still so hard to believe.

There was nothing but tenderness in Duncan's dark eyes as the Highlander looked at him. "Yes, I really want this. I think we're due a little happily ever aftering, don't you?"

Methos gave him an amused, quizzical look. "Is that a proposal?"

Duncan had that sweetly smug look on his face again. "You could do worse."

Yes, he could -- he had. "You're awfully sure of yourself, Highlander," he said, clasping his hands behind Duncan's neck.

"Maybe because I'm awfully sure of you."

For once, Methos had nothing to say. He could only feel the warmth of that declaration blossom through him, lighting up all the cold, dark places. He wanted to spout nonsense -- poetry, and declarations of eternal love -- but contented himself with pushing closer to Duncan, kissing his mouth, loving him back as much as he possibly could.  


~*~

 

_Seacouver, WA - Joe's Place_

Joe Dawson sorted through his mail, finding yet another postcard -- this time from Glenfinnan, Scotland -- Mac and Adam updating him on their round the world tour. The gist of every message was pretty much: _Having a wonderful time; glad you're not here_. Joe didn't hold it against them. He had field agents keeping track of the pair, and knew that sooner or later they would come home. He didn't know what would happen then, but something told him it wouldn't be dull.  


-the end-

 

Author's Note: Just in case anyone wonders, I made up the name 'Nekrotarati; out of two words: nekro, from the Greek - relating to the dead); and tarati from Sanskrit - he overcomes. In other words, "he overcomes death."


End file.
